Saving Grace

by Jane Green

  There is a silence as Ted considers her suggestion. He has never been a writer who has relied on anyone else to put words into his mouth. Years ago he was commissioned to write a short non-fiction book on the presidential race, to come out in time for the next election.

  The publishers paid him a vast amount of money, the sort of money it would be impossible to turn down for what would, essentially, be about two weeks of work. The reason it was only going to take two weeks was firstly, because they had an incredibly tight deadline and secondly, because they had a team of researchers already putting together all the information for the book.

  In fact, they said, they had sample chapters; it had already been written. They wanted his name on the cover and they wanted him to read through and do exactly what Beth had just suggested: ‘Ted Chapman it up’.

  It was a coffee-table book, resplendent with large, glossy never-before-seen photographs of various former presidents. Ted received the sample manuscript, sat on the old Chesterfield in the barn and, after three pages, roared with fury.

  It was the most horrifyingly written piece of drivel he had ever read. There was no way in hell that could go to print with his name on it. It didn’t need Ted Chapmaning up, it needed an entire goddamned rewrite.

  Which he did. By basically not sleeping for the next two weeks. It became the worst two weeks of his life and gave him a headache that no amount of aspirin could solve.

  It was the last time he accepted an assignment like that, and now, sitting here, hearing that Beth would put this together – would, essentially, write the basics – he remembers that project.

  And he remembers the conversations he and Beth have on a daily basis. The suggestions she makes. The way she has taken over his fan mail, responding to each of his readers individually, personalizing the letters and, magically, effortlessly, managing to sound exactly like him.

  She has caught the essence of his voice. From time to time, when Beth has gone home, he scrolls through her computer and reads the letters she has written. Although he signs them all himself, he never has time to do anything but scan them, if that, at the time of signature.

  Reading them on Beth’s computer, he has a delighted smile on his face, occasionally barking with laughter at how she sounds exactly, but exactly, like him. If he didn’t know better, he would think he had written these letters himself.

  He could do a podcast and Beth could do the work. Finally, he has someone he can trust.

  ‘Do you know what?’ he says. ‘I think that might be a rather good idea. Beth, why don’t you draft something and let me have a look. Let’s see whether we can make something work.’

  The text comes in just as Ted is about to climb into the car, Beth already in the back seat.

  You’re right, Steven texts. She is gold! You win prize for most charming, clever assistant. Lovely to be with you both.

  Ted smiles to himself as he slips the phone into his pocket and climbs in next to Beth, ready to be driven back home, to Palisades, to Grace.

  ‘While I remember,’ he says absentmindedly to Beth, who is reading her Kindle on the back seat as he scrolls through his emails and lists of things to do. ‘Can you phone Dr Frank Ellery and make an appointment for Grace? Actually, make one for me first, to talk to him about Grace. I’ll send you the number.’

  ‘Is everything okay? Is Grace sick?’

  Ted sighs. ‘She’s . . . fine. She’s not sick, but she’s not herself. Remember? We talked about this a couple of weeks ago? I’ve been thinking about your suggestion that she see someone. I didn’t think so at the time, but she is definitely erratic. She has a . . . volatility I’m not used to, and I know you’ve had a number of experiences with her lately that have been . . . difficult.’

  Beth’s face falls. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything. Now I feel terrible.’

  ‘Please don’t. I know you’ve been concerned. Now, hopefully, we can help her.’

  ‘I really do hope she’s all right,’ Beth says. ‘But I do understand about the volatility. She seems calm and fine one minute, then the next she is in bed, or crying, or angry. I try not to take it personally, but I do think you’re doing the right thing, seeing someone. Didn’t you say she hadn’t been sleeping recently too? That she was up cleaning all night?’

  Ted nods.

  ‘That kind of behaviour must be very frightening for you. I have an aunt who seemed to be completely normal until her mid-forties, and suddenly she changed completely. At first they thought it was hormonal, but her behaviour was so erratic, so . . . manic, it didn’t seem possible that it was just menopause.’

  ‘When you say manic . . .’

  ‘She’d be up all night for nights at a time, making things. Tidying the house, but it was frenzied. And she got angry in a way she hadn’t ever before.’

  ‘It was depression?’

  ‘Yes. Manic depression, though. Bipolar disorder. She started medication and it changed her life. We all got her back. They say it runs in families, and my cousin seems to have it too.’

  This time Ted says nothing as the thoughts whirl around his head.

  Seventeen

  The days of Grace being an early riser seem long gone. Lately she is finding it more and more difficult to get out of bed. She has never before used an alarm, or at least, not since the children were living at home and she had to make sure she never overslept, but even then, she was usually awake by 5.30, making lists and tea well before anyone else in the house had roused themselves.

  These past few weeks of waking up in the middle of the night, and staying wide awake for hours, is proving disastrous. If she is lucky, she will get back to sleep at around 5.00 a.m., but then has to set an alarm, which invariably jars her out of a deep sleep. Lately, instead of turning the alarm off and hopping out of bed, as would normally be her wont, she has turned it off, to sink straight back into a deep sleep.

  Three times over the past ten days she has done the unthinkable, discovering it’s around two o’clock in the afternoon, and despite how busy her schedule, how much she has to do, she has been unable to keep her eyes open and has slipped upstairs and into bed, planning on a twenty-minute nap, only to awaken, groggy and feeling infinitely worse, at 4.30. And once, at 6.00.

  ‘You’ve been asleep? That’s not like you. Are you coming down with something? Is everything all right?’ Grace walks into the kitchen to find Ted at the kitchen table, reading the papers. She has no idea why her husband is in the kitchen and not in the barn at 4.30 in the afternoon, is irritated he has caught her sleeping in the middle of the day.

  ‘I think it may be the exhaustion of organizing that event at Harmont House,’ Grace says, lying. This exhaustion could not possibly have come from the stress of organizing that event. It was entirely possible she was reaching the time of life when menopause was fast approaching. All she heard from friends was how awful menopause was, and it may be the most logical of explanations for how she has been feeling.

  ‘You look terrible, Grace. When are you going to see a doctor?’

  Grace’s mouth is set in a sharp line. ‘Thank you, Ted. There’s nothing like having your husband tell you how awful you look to make you feel better.’ She turns to go back upstairs, her shoulders hunched and tense.

  ‘Grace! I wasn’t saying anything of the kind. Don’t be so silly . . .’

  ‘Don’t tell me I’m being silly,’ she says, recognizing she is being unreasonable even as she is being unreasonable, not knowing how to change it, how to get out of this mood that has just descended.

  There is a long, awkward silence as Ted just looks at her. ‘I’m going out,’ she says, grabbing her bag. ‘I’m going to town. I’ll be back later.’

  She walks out the door, stopping suddenly as she realizes her car is gone. They have a number of cars – Ted drives a newish Volvo Estate, she has a small Mercedes that she loves; there is a very old Volvo they carted Clemmie and her friends around in when they were small that they have never got rid of, and a picku
p truck that has always been surprisingly useful.

  All the other cars are parked where they always are, except for her Mercedes.

  ‘Ted? Where’s my car? I need to go out.’

  ‘I think Beth took it.’ Ted seems nervous, halting. ‘I think she may have taken it to the car wash.’

  ‘It didn’t need a wash,’ Grace says. ‘It’s my car. No one drives my car without asking me. Oh, for God’s sake.’ Her voice rises with irritation.

  ‘Grace, it’s fine. Text her and see when she’ll be back, or take my car. Take the Suburban. It’s a car, and it’s not like we don’t have alternatives for you to drive. Please, Grace. Calm down.’

  ‘Don’t tell me to calm down.’ Grace is steely cold. ‘I don’t want to drive the Suburban and I hate your car. You know I hate driving your car. Who gave her permission to drive my car?’

  Ted looks at her, aghast, just as the Mercedes pulls back down the driveway.

  ‘See!’ Ted’s whole body sinks in relief. ‘I told you she wouldn’t be long.’

  Grace says nothing, just marches out of the house and towards the car as Beth climbs out of it, dry-cleaning in hand.

  ‘Beth.’ Grace attempts to hide her sudden anger, realizing now how inappropriate it is. ‘Please do not take my car without checking with me first.’

  Beth’s face falls. ‘I’m so sorry!’ She is clearly mortified. ‘I just noticed you had spilled some dirt from the plants you’ve been carting over to Harmont House, and I took it up to the car wash to have them clean it. But you’re right. I should never have done it without your permission. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Thank you for doing that.’ Grace attempts to modify her tone. ‘It was very thoughtful. I’m just asking that you don’t take my car without checking I’m not using it.’

  ‘Of course,’ says Beth. ‘It won’t happen again.’

  Grace nods, not trusting herself to speak. As she drives off to Harmont House, she starts to feel increasingly stupid. Embarrassed. Beth was only trying to help; why did she feel so . . . violated? How did she reach a point when something so insignificant sent her not only into a temper, but almost to tears?

  It must be hormonal. It has to be hormonal, for it is so unlike her. There are other things that have started happening. Night sweats. Her period, still there, but erratic. Sometimes missing for months at a time, sometimes every two weeks.

  She hasn’t yet been to see a doctor, for she is so averse to taking medicine unless it is absolutely necessary. At various times in her life, it has been absolutely necessary, but only antibiotics for a cold that developed into a sinus infection or an ear infection that wouldn’t get better by itself.

  One of the first signs that something is a little wrong is when Grace stops cooking. She can’t stop altogether, not anymore, not when she has obligations to fulfill, but there isn’t the same pleasure there usually is; it is more of a chore that she tries to get done as quickly and painlessly as possible.

  Here today, at Harmont House, she brings with her the ingredients for a ‘paleo’ carrot cake. No wheat flour, for two of the women now have an intolerance, and while usually she would be excited at trying a new recipe, today she just wants to be in and out, back to the safety of her house.

  There have been times when she has been prescribed an antidepressant. She has hated taking it, hating having to admit there may be something wrong, terrified that she has somehow inherited her mother’s illness, and has only ever used it as a temporary panacea.

  These mood swings, however much she hates to admit it, remind her of her mother. She used to be certain she had not inherited her mother’s illness. She has never experienced mania, nor anything like it, and her depressions are not like her mother’s – not enough to send her to bed for months at a time. Hers feel like the excitement and joy have been pulled out of life, leaving it flat, colourless, dull. During those times, she is sad, yes, but she takes the pills, they make her feel better, and soon she is better. Her mother would be flattened for months, and mania? Grace has never, thank God, had it.

  But this anger is new or, at least, the regularity of this anger is. Despite her certainty about the approaching menopause, she is nervous about taking hormones, even the ones her body may need to help regulate her moods.

  Grace has changed her diet completely, hoping, believing, that she can improve their health – both hers and Ted’s – by changing their nutrition. He is on Lipitor, but she is convinced she can lower his cholesterol naturally, eventually hoping to take him off. She now has two pill boxes in the kitchen, labelled for each day of the week, filled to the brim with supplements to keep them in optimum health, help stave off the inevitable.

  Vitamin D, omega-3s, Vitamin E, B-12, choline and inositol, SAMe, zinc, DHEA. Every day she pops handfuls of these pills, but right now, driving to Harmont House, foggy-headed after her lengthy afternoon sleep and embarrassed at being so ridiculous about Beth trying to do something nice for her, Grace starts to wonder if any of it is working.

  Grace starts to wonder if Ted may be right. Maybe she is going crazy after all.

  PALEO, (FLOURLESS, GLUTEN-FREE) CARROT CAKE

  INGREDIENTS

  6 eggs, whites and yolks separated

  120ml honey

  3 large carrots, cooked and pureed

  1 tablespoon orange zest

  1 tablespoon orange juice

  300g almond flour

  Preheat oven to 170°C/gas mark 3.

  Beat the egg yolks and honey together. Mix in carrot puree, orange zest, orange juice and almond flour.

  Beat the egg whites until stiff peaks form and fold into egg and carrot mixture.

  Spoon into a greased, loose-bottomed 9-inch springform cake tin and bake for about 50 minutes, or until a skewer pushed into the centre comes out clean.

  Eighteen

  When she first moved to the United States, Grace would sit, mesmerized, in front of the television screen, watching adverts for drugs, desperate patients encouraged to beg their doctors for pills, despite the side effects that may include, it seemed, certain death.

  She remembers telling Lydia, on one of her trips home, how hilarious she found them. Patrick had just returned from a trip to Los Angeles, and he immediately adopted the voiceover, warning them all of certain death should they take that aspirin. Patrick and Grace had laughed more than the others, but as hilarious as she found them then, she now finds them frightening.

  She has never been on anything for any period of time, and has never, ever countenanced seeing a therapist. Therapists seem so . . . American. What good could it possibly do to sit in someone’s office week after week and pour out your woes? How self-indulgent! What an unwanted luxury! And if you didn’t have woes, what then? Who wants to sit in a therapist’s office and talk about the good stuff? If you didn’t have woes, you would surely have to create them.

  Grace’s life has always been pretty good, thank you very much. She will admit there have certainly been times when she has been depressed – Clemmie leaving home was one of her lowest moments – but her remedy has always worked: stay home for a while, sleep a bit more, drink more cups of tea and wait for it to pass.

  Which is why she is currently sitting in the waiting room of esteemed psychiatrist, Dr Frank Ellery, wondering what the hell she is doing here.

  Ted just wouldn’t let the subject drop. It wasn’t like her to lose her temper, he said. It wasn’t like her to be up all night, then in bed for hours during the day. He was worried about her. Beth was worried about her. Clemmie was worried about her.

  This last part made her sit up and take notice. If Clemmie is worried about her, Clemmie who is troubled by nothing, then perhaps there is something to worry about. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad thing to talk to someone. Just talk. Just see if that might help.

  She would get her hormones checked too. Would make an appointment with the endocrinologist this afternoon, when she finished with Dr Frank Ellery. It was also time for her colonoscopy. And s
oon, a mammogram.

  This was when she missed living in England. For all she knew, it had changed entirely, but growing up she never remembered her parents going to the doctor, and certainly never for checkups.

  Over here, the older she gets, the more tests there are. None of them show anything, ever. She doesn’t believe they ever will, believes it to be a precious waste of everyone’s time.

  And yet . . . and yet . . . so many friends have been diagnosed with breast cancer, caught at a routine annual mammogram. Ten years ago Sybil had come back from Mexico with what she presumed was a stomach bug, or parasite, picked up while she was there. Her doctor insisted on a colonoscopy, discovering that it was indeed giardia, and while he was there, he removed two large polyps. Both of which turned out to be precancerous. At thirty-seven. Long before Sybil was expected or due to even start thinking about her colon.

  It wasn’t that Grace didn’t expect the bad stuff to happen, it was that she didn’t expect it to happen to her.

  She only agreed to this, this therapy, because she doesn’t want Clemmie to worry about her, and because Ted had suggested Dr Frank Ellery – and they had met him at a dinner party last year. Surprisingly, she had felt instantly comfortable with him, had thought that if she were to ever wish to see a psychiatrist, he would be exactly the sort of psychiatrist she would choose.

  And now here she is. Nervously flicking through a very old copy of Town & Country that she read months ago, trying to still her beating heart, as the internal door opens and there he is. The good doctor, offering her an outstretched hand and a warm smile as he tells her how delighted he is to see her again.

  ‘I know you talked to my husband,’ Grace says nervously. ‘Thank you for asking my permission to do that. I’m sure he’s told you a little of what’s going on.’

  ‘He did,’ says Frank – he asked her to call him Frank – saying nothing further, examining her with limpid eyes.

  Grace wants to ask exactly what Ted said, but knows it is unlikely he will divulge much. She probably shouldn’t ask. It would be pointless.